by Terry Morgan
He walked for half an hour, felt cold and returned. Still there was no Tom. He sat on the bed. "Well, I suppose I can't put it off forever." He reached for his jacket, removed the mobile phone from the already sagging side pocket, then dug deeper for the slip of paper from Douglas. He stared at it a while, took a deep breath and pressed the numbers. The phone clicked. There was a pause and then a voice.
It was a voice that he knew—such a familiar sound. It was a voice that had accompanied him everywhere for forty years, a voice he now realized he had sometimes failed to hear. A clear and feminine voice, perhaps older now, but still softly accented by the Bristol upbringing. It was a voice that flashed memories at him so vividly. It called him to come down from upstairs on a Sunday morning. There was the faintly talking radio and the desk in his small home office. There was the kitchen and the smell of cooking of Sunday lunch. He was reading by the bedroom window, clean sheets and sunlight, the freshly mown lawn. Just an instant but backwards in time.
He choked and his voice was gone. He forced himself to find it. "Hello. Margaret?"
There was nothing. Had he imagined it? But then. "Jim?"
He swallowed hard. "Yes. Yes, Margaret. It's me."
"But…Where? What on earth….?"
"I have come home."
"But how? When?"
"I met Douglas today. I was sorry to hear about Megan." It was all he could think to say and he waited in silence. Then he could wait no longer. "Margaret?"
She spoke again. "I'm sorry. I can't believe it. Why, after all this time?"
"Why," Jim said. It was more of a statement. Did he know why he had come home? He had thought he did, it seemed clear a few days ago. "Why?" he said it again, this time as a question but perhaps to give him time to remember. "There are things I want to sort out. Unfinished business." Business? Did he have to use that word so soon?
"But why?"
"Because it was not right." There was silence but for a faint breathing. "Douglas told me something today," he paused. "I did not know, Margaret. Until today I did not know. I always felt as though, maybe, just maybe, one day…" He stopped, uncertain, swallowing hard. “Margaret. I must see you."
"Why? After all this time? Over three years, Jim. Without a single word." He heard her sniff but waited. She was right of course, he knew that. "No, I can't. I don't understand," she went on.
"But neither do I, Margaret. I stopped understanding almost four years ago and still I don't understand. I saw problems and possible reasons for difficulties but it was not so bad, Margaret. Was it? Just a temporary problem. It would have blown over."
"It's over, Jim. Finished." The tone was surprisingly strong. "I don't understand why you have called. I thought it was…my God, Jim. You call. Out of the blue. No warning. No news from you for years and suddenly you call."
"But, can we not talk now? Is it so wrong to try to talk? To understand? How are you? I need to know. Every day I want to know."
He heard her sniff again. "Please, Jim. What is all this nonsense about? Why now, of all times?"
"I've been away," he repeated, as though it was fresh news. He realized the absurdity, but his mind was racing now. He had so much to say and the thought that she might just switch the phone off dominated his side thoughts. "But now I have come back. I want to renew my campaign. Provide the evidence. But I have also come to see you. I still do not understand what went wrong."
He came to a sudden halt. He had always been utterly useless at this sort of thing. It was why he'd put it off for so long and he'd probably already ruined everything anyway. Relationships were not like other things. "Margaret, are you still there?"
"Yes."
"Can we meet, just talk? There is so much I don't understand about why you stopped supporting me. I need to know, Margaret. It still bothers me so deeply. I always tried my best for us. I know I have my shortcomings and I made countless mistakes and errors over the years. But I don't understand what finally went so wrong. Was it the pressure, Margaret? Was it the hounding of the press? Was it the politics? What was it, Margaret?"
There was silence from the other side but he could hear soft breathing and a rustling sound. "Margaret? Please. Talk to me. Don't leave me like this."
Now he remembered those same, identical words he had used four years ago. Margaret lying on the bed after an outburst, the one that started the downward spiral of their close and loving relationship.
"Where are you, Jim?" Her voice was calm. He was encouraged.
"Staying near London. I flew back yesterday."
"So where are you living?"
"South East Asia."
"Where? Asia is huge."
"Oh, just a small place in the countryside, backing onto the hills, lovely views…"
The entire conversation probably lasted three minutes. To Jim it felt like an hour.
Finally: "So, can I come to see you, Margaret?" He heard the phone squeak as if her hand might, like his, be sweaty and damp.
"I really don’t think it’s a good idea, Jim. Certainly not here. Neutral ground, perhaps, so to speak."
She sounded very much in control. Jim was pleased but also surprised and concerned. She sounded different, more in charge. "Whatever you say. Wherever is convenient."
"Bristol. Clifton. The Bridge Hotel. You know it? One o'clock. Lunch time. Monday."
"Fine. Lunch time Monday it is."
Jim heard the phone click, switched his own off and fell back with his head on the pillow. He felt tired, hot, his heart was pounding and his chest hurt a little. Then there was a knock on the door that made him jump and did nothing to improve his throbbing head. He wiped some wetness from his cheeks, sat up, put his bare feet on the floor and stood up. There was another knock. He felt dizzy and supported himself for a moment with his hand on the wall before going to the door. "Coming."
"Jim." Tom came into the room or, at least, part way. It was in almost complete darkness except for the orange light from a street lamp outside. "Been asleep, have you?"
"No, not at all. Wide awake."
Tom switched the light on. "Are you OK, Jim?" Tom peered at him like a doctor on an evening tour of sick patients. "You're not about to have another funny turn, are you?"
"I'm fine."
"Did you meet your friend?"
"Yes."
"Good meeting?"
"We reminisced."
"Well, that's good, so it is. But I've not been busy socializing. I rang a friend who phoned someone else and I now know more about Polly. She's Pollyanna Andersen and she lives in Stockholm."
"So quick?" Jim's sad-looking eyes widened.
"Did I not tell you I was more cut out for investigative reporting than camping outside politician's apartments?"
Chapter Forty-Nine
"I'D LIKE TO introduce Tom Hanrahan," Jim said.
It was late morning, Saturday, and Jim and Tom had been waiting in the lobby of the big, anonymous hotel near Heathrow Airport for Jonathan and Jan to arrive—Jan from Amsterdam, Jonathan from north London. Preliminaries over, Tom spoke to Jan.
"I thought Jim said you lived in Brussels not Amsterdam."
"Yes," replied Jan. "But I'm being watched and checked. I thought if I told as many people as possible I was going to Amsterdam for the weekend and then got in my car, drove there and caught a flight from Schiphol, it might just put off any followers."
It was Tom's first understanding of the risks Jan was taking.
"Who is checking on me is a mystery," Jan continued. "He or she could be sitting at the desk next to me—a totally innocent employee fed on such a diet of suspicion that you are required to spy on work mates."
"It's as bad as that?" Jim asked.
"Sure. It happened to me in my first week. I was called to a meeting with four or five others for a two-hour session on security, secrecy and confidentiality. Vigilance was the word they wrote up on the white board. And it works. Someone knows what I do, where I go and who I see socially. It's probably pa
ssed along a chain. Guido even knew about my meetings with Katrine. She spent the night with me—just once. Days later, Guido knew."
"Dear Mother of God," Tom said.
Jan shrugged. "I'm trying to appear just as trustworthy to my corrupt handlers as my official employer so I'm living a lie."
Tom again: "Tell me about this Italian—the Guido fellow."
"A short, fat, sinister little guy in a suit who should sing soprano parts in Italian opera. Guido sits close to, or at, the center of the web. But there are others, maybe many others involved. He calls them 'members' but who the members are is another mystery. But I think he's key to unravelling the whole organization. Eischmann might be untouchable, at least to start with, but the organization is international with individuals—the so-called 'members'—not necessarily aware of the structure behind it. But once you've got the structure in place…" Jan opened his arms.
"There are thousands of people out there looking to take bribes, commissions or big, fat fees for fixing things," Jan went on. "They are the ones with suits, shirts and ties. Then there are those who get their hands dirty, those who steal equipment, food, medical supplies or anything else and sell it for cash."
The discussion between the four men took in lunch and went on until well into the afternoon.
"So where do we take it, Jim?" Jonathan finally asked. "That's the dilemma. Since you, Jan and I first met in Amsterdam I still feel we're at the stage of gathering evidence. I'm risking my business but Jan is risking his life. Jan and I had a few ideas about using the Sierra Leone bid as a test case, but we'll just have to wait and see. We're using mobile phones that only the two of us know about, but I live in dread of late night calls from Jan when I'm supposed to be cozying up to my wife. She already thinks Puff and Slush are a couple of exotic dancers at an African night club I've started going to with a Nigerian man called Jacob."
Jim had listened for almost three hours. It had been mostly for the benefit of Tom to see firsthand what was going on. But then the conversation moved on to what they should do next.
"If it was action to issue arrest warrants," Jim said, "we could go to the Home Office and get Interpol involved. But we still don't have enough evidence. And if they saw me sitting behind it like a ghost from the past you can just imagine the ridicule.
"So that approach is a non-starter at present but I'm wondering whether an organization like the ICC—the International Chamber of Commerce's Commercial Crime Services and the Financial Investigation Bureau or even the Serious Fraud Office—the SFO—might help. Their role is just what we're talking about here—commercial crime; fraud in international trade, financial instrument fraud, money laundering, shipping fraud. It might be worth checking the ICC out, Jonathan. Join them—it's a membership organization. Joining might also help deflect any future suggestions that you are involved in fraud yourself. Come clean with them, say you suspect fraud linked to some of the innocent help and advice you are giving. No need to be specific.
"And one reason for me coming back is to start more covert investigations. Tom and I will deal with that and we'll start with Guido—perhaps travel to Holland, check the Delft apartment."
Tom jumped in.
"Careful Jim. Think what you're saying." He turned to Jan and Jonathan. "Here speaks the man who I only met because I watched him collapse on the floor just a few days ago. And I'm still not so sure if he knows what the diagnosis was. It was me who scooped him up but he really needs a proper check up with a cardiologist."
Jim waved his arm dismissively.
"I'll just keep taking the medicine, Tom." Then, to the other two: "So what do you think of our new recruit, Mr. Hanrahan? Do you think he'll enhance the team? It's his big chance as an investigative journalist and he's sworn to secrecy until we've got a sound case. His job is the undercover work, but his CV isn't good. He's already failed once. What is it you call an incompetent Irish paparazzi? A green reporter?"
Tom, fortunately, laughed. "Ah, yes. But beware if someone gets in my way and I don't like them."
"That's true. It's why he became a friend. I've known him for almost two weeks and, fortunately, we've not yet fallen out."
"So how long are you staying here?" Jan asked Jim.
"As long as it takes I suppose. I have one private matter to sort out but this business is my top priority."
The three other men watched him as his rare humor died as quickly as it had arrived. He glanced away and appeared to shake his head and frown.
Amongst the wispy strands of the gray beard, his lips were clearly moving. Yes, I know, Margaret. I've said it now. But you must understand, Margaret. It is about professional reputation and integrity. I have to prove I was right—before it is too late. He looked up, saw the others watching and snapped out of it.
"But I'd like to meet your FBI friend, Jonathan—Scott Evora," Jim said. "At least he won't be part of the local establishment."
Chapter Fifty
AS JIM, TOM, Jonathan and Jan continued their meeting in London, somewhere in Italy Guido was taking a bath. As he wallowed in deep, white foam listening to Pucchini's Tosca he heard his phone ringing. Turning the opera volume down with a remote, he leaned over to retrieve the phone. Then he lost his soap.
"Yah." There was a pause as Guido switched on the loudspeaker function and, still searching frantically for the lost soap with one hand, listened with the other short, white arm holding the phone above the thick layer of scented bubbles.
"So why has Mr. Moses phoned you, Toni? And why do you phone me when I am in the bath? It is very inconvenient. The soap gets into my phone and it echoes like the Duomo di Milano in here. I can sing opera here—Puccini, Tosca, La Boheme—because the acoustics are like La Scala, but I cannot always hear the bloody phone.
"OK, wait. I am getting out of the bath. I feel very naked when I am in the bath and speaking on the telephone. Where is my towel? And my bottle of Sassicaia? Yes, now I have it. Mmm. Now, what is the problem, my flower?"
Guido was sitting, wrapped in a vast white towel with his short legs crossed on a stool next to the bath and a white table with his bottle of wine. First he sipped but then he spat.
"This, Toni, is gross incompetence. We cannot upset customers like Mr. Moses. How has this happened? It was quite clear. Mr. Moses was to receive the boxes of water purifiers, valued at a mere 34,300 dollars as part of his much larger contract with us. It was just a small shipment. Easy. Simple.
"Why is it that we can successfully ship pharmaceuticals and baby foods worth over 365,000 dollars to him that have cost us nothing except the cost of an invoice and on which he will make at least thirty percent when he sells it to Liberia and yet a few boxes of water purifiers…fuck! It is a mess, Toni. And we must sort it quickly. I do not want to lose our water purifiers to bastard thieves at Freetown customs. The thieves are supposed to enjoy the fruits of their thieving by reading old copies of the Corriere della Sera. That was the plan. Someone is to blame, Toni. Mr. Moses does not want old newspapers."
There was a pause as he listened, his spare hand playing with bubbles.
"Yes, Toni. You must sort it. Immediately. But do not go away, Toni. I have something else to ask you. What has happened with Cherry Picking? I have heard nothing from you…They are still not answering your calls? This is very bad. We must not lose this Sierra Leone project you understand? Guido hates failing. There is a stigma attached to failure. It is as if we are foolish and incompetent. We must not fail on this one, OK? And another thing. Silvester the investor. Have we made contact?…Good. Well done, flower. Now fuck off and sort out Signor Moses."
Guido unraveled himself from the huge towel and stepped into the bath again.
Chapter Fifty-One
JAN WAS READY to leave the hotel to catch his flight back to Amsterdam but Jim was anxious to thank him once again for what he was doing.
"I'm suddenly becoming a rich man, Jim. But it's dirty money and I don't want it. And I still don't fully understand the loan syste
m that Guido explained. It sounds more like a bribe with strings attached, like blackmail, a hidden threat. I don't know what to do with it. It's sitting there in my account and each time I look at it I wish I'd never offered to help. But then I think again and I know exactly why I'm doing it. Do you understand?"
Jim nodded.
Standing behind them, Jonathan's mobile rang. He excused himself but was straight back. "FBI—Scott Evora," he said. "He wants another chat. I said I was tied up at present but I'd call him back. And Jacob Johnson has left a message so I might need more excuses to give Claire for another night of debauchery with my Nigerian friend."
With that, Jan left in the taxi, the others returned to the lobby and Jonathan made his phone calls as Jim and Tom listened. First up was Jacob Johnson.
"You still in London, Jacob?…Yes, everything is OK. We've already submitted the Sierra Leone bid and we've had a formal acknowledgement. My contact there thinks we might be required to present more information but…yes, yes, this is quite normal…As for the bid for your Lebanese associates—the Education funds bid—this still needs some more work. Give me a week or so on that, OK? And please chase your letters of support from Beirut. We'll get nowhere without those."
Jonathan finished the call and nodded to Jim and Tom.
"He seems content enough. And Jan might get to see this Sierra Leone, Sulima Construction bid on Monday as he's on duty with the Economic Aid West Africa—EAWA—committee. But it's too early yet to decide how we might use it to prove anything fraudulent on the funds side. I admit, though, it's me who has misbehaved. I've submitted the bid knowing full well that documents are questionable."
Jonathan paused.
"The name of the unheard of consultant in Sierra Leone is Cherry Pick Investments," he went on. "But the documents they sent over look convincing enough. It's a Lebanese company, registered in Singapore, headquarters in Beirut, offices in Sierra Leone, Lagos and Holland. They've provided a list of projects already completed but I've not had time to check them out. My bet is they'll look feasible on paper but are actually fictitious. Documents show it's been trading for fifteen years but I think it's a start-up. The Minister's signature also looks convincing—so convincing it may be the only thing that's not forged."